


Complementary

by ceterisparibus



Series: Prompts! [15]
Category: Daredevil (TV), Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Fluff, Human Disaster Malcolm Bright, Human Disaster Matt Murdock, Idiots in Love, Kinda, Legal Ethics, M/M, except they throw that out the window too, or lack thereof, police procedure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-12 15:41:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29137995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceterisparibus/pseuds/ceterisparibus
Summary: Malcolm attempts to find a killer. Matt attempts to distract him. Both endeavors are successful.Prompt: can you please write any thing with Malcolm/Matt ? I am loving your fic with them but I would love to see these human disasters love each other!
Relationships: Malcolm Bright/Matt Murdock
Series: Prompts! [15]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1334596
Comments: 20
Kudos: 56





	Complementary

**Author's Note:**

> Guys, Malcolm is the best narrator ever because he's my excuse to just ramble about psychology.

It was their first time going out on a quote-unquote mission (Matt used the word once, it just slipped out, and Malcolm refused to let him live it down) after they started dating, and Malcolm _naïvely_ thought it wouldn’t be that different from all the times they’d worked together before. Work was work, you know? And with Matt’s whole secret identity thing, it wasn’t like the guy didn’t know how to compartmentalize. So Malcolm figured they’d get the job done, and go back to flirting later.

He really should’ve known better, but this wouldn’t be the first time Malcolm missed an embarrassingly obvious reality. Especially about Matt.

See, it started with whether he even liked Matt in the first place. No one would ever really accuse Malcolm of being in tune with his own emotions, and that was on top of the fact that he was all too aware of psychology’s convoluted history with evaluating homosexuality. And so being attracted to men was just not really something he let himself think about.

It was there, though; Matt was definitely not the first. Looking back, it wasn’t even all that surprising. Malcolm always related more to women than to men—like, he felt _different_ from everyone, really, but especially from men. (As a young child, he unthinkingly assumed his father represented manhood, and all Malcolm really knew was that he was decidedly _not_ that). He later learned that differences, in everything from personality to someone’s _smell_ , encouraged attraction. Not _compatibility_ , necessarily, that was a whole other question…but attraction, sure. Plus, there was maybe a tiny bit of jealousy mixed in. (If he were taller, if he were more athletic, if he were cooler, if he cared more about sports than the intricacies of the human mind…maybe his life would be easier?) And jealousy and attraction had a weird way of feeding on each other.

So, yeah, the attraction to men was there for…pretty much as long as he could remember. But, in classic Malcolm form, he didn’t let himself actually _acknowledge_ it for years.

(Repression, what?)

Besides, what would be the point? Attraction didn’t mean he had to do anything about it, and he was too busy with school and then work (and, frankly, too convinced that he was too screwed up) to try to figure out how to have an actual relationship. (Jessica was confused for a second when he first came out to her as bi, like she thought he could only be bi if he actually had a boyfriend. But she recovered quickly, and both she and Ainsely were totally accepting.)

It still wasn’t a thing he spent much time thinking about, though. You know. Until Matt.

It hit him all of a sudden. He’d dropped by Nelson & Murdock one evening, late enough that Matt was the only one working. All Malcolm wanted was to update him on one of their shared cases (Foggy always rolled his eyes when they called them _their_ cases, since the truth was, the cases only ever technically belonged to one of them at best—Malcolm with the NYPD, or Matt with his firm—and, more often than not, belonged to precisely neither of them in any formal way whatsoever), but he made the mistake of asking what Matt was working on first. Cue Matt giving a long and earnest explanation of the almost impossible bars to federal habeas corpus review. He was just sitting there behind his desk, glasses removed after a long day, eyes exhausted, gesturing with one hand as he went on and on about the standards set by both Congress and the Supreme Court: totally unjust, and totally entrenched.

And, look, Malcolm was _listening_ , he really was, even though he didn’t understand half it (he figured he’d research it later, come back with actual understanding, and see if he could be more supportive), but at the same time, he suddenly thought: _Oh. He’s perfect._

And, like…Matt was objectively _not_ perfect. So clearly such a thought was a sign of a temporary glitch in Malcolm’s cognitive functions—a glitch he could attribute to only one thing.

He then spent about a minute silently panicking about whether Matt, with his senses, would somehow be able to _tell_. And sure enough, Matt definitely knew something was off, because he cocked his head and frowned and asked if Malcolm was okay. But he completely bought whatever lie Malcolm spun (a lie Malcolm could no longer even remember). It was one of the few times when having a functional level of anxiety (Gil would question whether it was functional, but whatever) worked out in Malcolm’s favor: since his heartrate accelerated all the time for no good reason, it made it hard for Matt to figure out when he was lying.

And it went on like that for a frankly bizarre amount of time. For someone with heightened senses, Matt was weirdly oblivious to Malcolm’s feelings. Well, Malcolm knew that _now_ —at the time, he promptly concluded that Matt was just faking obliviousness because nothing was reciprocated. Which really meant that, for a profiler, Malcolm was weirdly oblivious as to Matt’s feelings.

Which were there, apparently, as evidenced by Matt asking to take him out to dinner one night when Matt was too heavily concussed to police his own behavior.

So, yeah. Apparently they could’ve been dating months ago if they’d just applied some self-awareness. But, you know, better late than never.

Anyway. Yet another thing Malcolm should definitely have recognized sooner was that Matt _sucked_ at compartmentalization. Kind of unfortunate, given his whole secret-identity thing. Also highly unfortunate for Malcolm’s ability to concentrate when they were sneaking into a serial killer’s apartment.

It was about two weeks (a week and five days, to be exact) since their first awkward dinner date, and Matt was picking the lock at the front door when he casually asked, “New cologne?”

Malcolm gaped at him. “What?” The time for flirty comments was over dinner or late at night watching movies on Malcolm’s repaired TV, not _breaking into four-time murderer’s home_.

Matt got the door open. “I like it,” he said. And with that, he slipped into the darkness of the empty apartment.

Uh, what?

Deliberately refocusing, Malcolm followed Matt inside. The guy they were after was a bookstore salesman, the very definition of mild-mannered, and the only reason Malcolm knew he was the guy was based on Matt’s senses: he’d recognized the killer’s scent from the crime scene, and recognized the guy was lying when Malcolm interviewed him. But sadly, none of that would stack up to probable cause with a judge. So now they were hunting either for evidence tying the murderer to one of his previous crimes, or for a hint about who he might go after next. So far, there was nothing consistent about his murders (Gil wasn’t even entirely convinced the same guy was responsible for all of them), and Malcolm’s profile wasn’t enough to narrow down who else was in danger.

In other words: this was _important_. Not the time to get distracted.

Malcolm flicked on his flashlight, scanning the living room. The opposite wall was covered with displays of pictures. Family. (His stomach dropped. Always so much easier when killers were creepy recluses or eccentric loners. Hunting a killer who had a happy family life always hit just a little close to home.)

Matt’s voice was abruptly right behind him, low but more like _Matt_ than _Daredevil_. “You all right?” he murmured.

The hairs on the back of Malcolm’s neck stood up. From the pictures, or Matt’s sudden closeness? (Both, probably.) “Living the dream,” Malcolm quipped, stepping forward. To get a better look at the pictures, or to get some distance from Matt?

(Both. Probably.)

“What’re you looking at?” Matt’s voice was now from farther away—how someone with his amount of muscle mass moved so silently, Malcolm had no idea—as he sniffed around the kitchen area.

“Pictures,” Malcolm answered absently, narrowing his eyes at a framed photograph of their target with a little girl on his shoulders. “If this guy really is a psychopath, I’m betting he’s got selective empathy.” Lack of remorse could be a result of brain chemicals, which meant empathy was all but impossible, but it could _also_ be the result of more complicated social-psychological aspects of a person’s upbringing. Which meant they _could_ feel empathy—just, narrowly. It was why, for instance, some abusers would kill someone for doing to a member of their own family what they regularly did to other people.

(Malcolm still hadn’t figured out if Martin was actually capable of selective empathy for his son, or just scarily good at faking it.)

Matt made an inquiring noise.

“Doesn’t matter,” Malcolm mumbled. “Not yet, anyway.” It might make up a useful part of the profile, but it didn’t narrow down who their killer might go after next, and it definitely didn’t tie him to any of his previous crimes.

“It’s fine,” Matt said lightly, now rifling through drawers and cabinets in the kitchen. “I’m glad you mentioned it. Not like I would’ve noticed.”

There wasn’t a hint of bitterness in his voice. Matt didn’t seem to feel any resentment at all that Malcolm could see while he couldn’t. Or maybe Matt was referring to the fact that he didn’t understand enough psychology to recognize the significance of the pictures even if he could see them.

Either way, the appreciation in his voice lit something warm in Malcolm’s belly. He told himself to stop overthinking and just enjoy the feeling.

Except they were still on a mission.

Ugh.

There was nothing else of note in the living room. “I’m checking upstairs,” Malcolm called. “Lemme know if anyone’s coming.”

Yeah, Matt couldn’t see, and maybe he didn’t have a master’s degree in abnormal psychology, but his supersenses sure made it easier to commit crimes without getting caught.

So Malcolm jogged up the stairs, confident that Matt would get them out of there in time if anyone else showed up. He headed into the master bedroom first. And, ooh, there were _books_ here. Awesome. The kind of books a person collected told you a lot about them.

Plopping down cross-legged in front of the bookshelf, Malcolm aimed his flashlight and tilted his head to read the spines. Yikes—some of it was delightfully morbid. Books on ancient torture devices, sadistic warfare strategies, poisons, you name it. No wonder the guy kept the books here, where the kids were less likely to come. This was definitely not the type of dad who thought father-son bonding included detailing the many ways to kill someone with a hairbrush.

Oh, wait, what? Three of these books were not like the other: textbooks on differential equations. Aha—one of the victims, a young college student named Rima Tawil, was killed at a tutoring session. She was an engineering student, apparently, and needed some help in her differential equations class. (Malcolm googled it out of curiosity and instantly felt dumb.) But what was a bookstore salesman doing with not one, not two, but _three_ books on a complicated engineering course?

He reached out with a gloved hand, drawing one of the books from the shelf.

“What’d you find?” Matt’s voice right behind Malcolm made him jump and drop the book.

“Would you stop _doing_ that,” Malcolm protested once he’d recovered his dignity. “How do you even know I found anything?”

Matt was crouched right behind him. “Well…” He picked up the book, weighing it in his hand. “Firstly, because I heard your heartrate start racing. Secondly—”

“You heard my heartbeat from _downstairs?_ ”

“I like listening to it,” Matt said innocently. “And secondly, because this book smells like Rima Tawil.”

Malcolm grabbed the book back. “Give me that.” Again, scents weren’t exactly something they could submit to a judge, but maybe he could find something more substantial if Ms. Tawil actually interacted with this book.

He flipped from page to page, shining his flashlight until he found…there. A long, dark hair caught between the pages. Malcolm carefully picked it up. “Hers?”

Matt nodded once in confirmation.

“Perfect.” Malcolm replaced the hair and closed the book. “Now all we gotta do is—”

He was cut off by Matt’s mouth against his.

“ _Mmph_ ,” Malcolm mumbled, startled. Not opposed, obviously, but confused.

Matt pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against Malcolm’s. “You’re amazing.”

“We’re not done yet,” Malcolm reminded him, a little weakly. He’d love to call it a night, head back to one of their places, leave the crime-solving for tomorrow. But they couldn’t. They’d found hard evidence, yeah, but it was _in the killer’s house_ , which meant they still needed a warrant just to access the evidence, which meant they needed _more_ evidence. Unless they stole the book to bring to Gil, but then the killer could just argue that uncertain chain of custody of the book meant the evidence could’ve been planted. (Matt hounded Malcolm on the whole chain-of-custody thing after Malcolm suggested stealing evidence back when they first started working together; Malcolm learned his lesson and figured it _might_ be worthwhile to learn a bit more of actual police procedure, just so he knew which rules he was breaking.) “We still have to—”

“We’ll figure it out.” Matt moved in closer, pulling Malcolm upright and pressing him back against the shelf.

It was very hard to argue when Matt was kissing him like that.

But Malcolm rallied his hurriedly-fleeing intelligence, pushing Matt back (well aware that Matt would not be pushed unless he wanted to be, and _that_ was a whole other distracting thought). “We can’t even use this evidence yet.”

“We’ll steal the book.”

Malcolm threw his hands in the air. “ _You’re_ the one always going on about chain of—”

Catching his hands, Matt pinned them back by Malcolm’s side and smirked. “ _I’ll_ steal the book, and plant it on our killer right before you bring your team to interrogate him. You get permission to search his bag, you find the book, and he can insist he didn’t bring it all he wants, but there’ll be no evidence to the contrary. You’ll get your evidence, chain of custody apparently intact.”

Matt’s application of ethics was selective at best.

But Malcolm couldn’t argue with the genius of that plan. “Yeah, okay. Sounds good.”

“Can I kiss you now, then?”

Why not? They’d found their evidence, they had a plan, and maybe it wasn’t _super_ appropriate to make out in a murderer’s bedroom, but Matt would still hear anyone coming.

So Malcolm grinned and kissed him first.

**Author's Note:**

> So the other fic referenced in the prompt is The Son (https://archiveofourown.org/works/23365366/chapters/55982185). It's gen, but if you love these two disasters interacting, you might want to check it out!
> 
> Anyway, here's the thing: I knew I wanted one of them to be focused and the other to be flirty, but I could not figure out which one was really more likely to fill which role. I ended up choosing Matt, obviously, but I think the roles could easily be reversed. Idk, what do you guys think?


End file.
